


Thrust, Parry, Cut

by shimotsuki



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimotsuki/pseuds/shimotsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martou dy Jironal finds himself in a duel of wits with an enemy he'd thought he had vanquished long before.</p><p><span class="small">(A series of seven linked drabbles of 100 words each.  Originally posted at the <b>chalion_ibra</b> community on LiveJournal for April Flowers 2011.)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrust, Parry, Cut

  
**1\. En Garde**   


Dy Jironal watched the ripe young royesse’s eyes shine when Dondo gave her his ostentatious string of pearls. Naive, then, and susceptible to flattery. She would make a most useful bride for his brother.

“What’s dy Cazaril doing here?” Dondo hissed, sliding up beside him. “I thought you’d finished him off after Gotorget!”

“What?” Dy Jironal stared at the royesse’s party with sudden sharp interest. There, indeed, stood a man he’d thought dead for months.

His eyes narrowed.

“First, we learn what he knows. Then, we’ll get him out of the way—for good, this time.”

~ * ~

  


  
**2\. Engagement**

 _the point at which the fencers  
are close enough to join blades_

Dy Jironal made his way across the dancing chamber to where dy Cazaril had propped himself against the wall.

The man was bearded now, and thinner, which must be why dy Jironal had looked right past him tonight. Or—no—the change went deeper. Dy Cazaril had always been the witty center of a little circle, but now he skulked alone at the edges of the crowd, still and quiet and gray as a shadow.

Whatever miracle had brought him back to Chalion, he was not exactly in top form.

Dy Jironal could take him down without even trying.

~ * ~

  


  
**3\. Redoublement**

 _an indirect renewal of an attack  
that missed, was short, or was parried_

“He refused my gift outright!” Dondo stormed in, disrupting dy Jironal’s contemplation of a glass of wine. “Said I should buy a man _with a lower price!_ ”

“Really.” Dy Jironal wouldn’t have expected that of meek dy Cazaril.

“He is _in my way,_ ” Dondo growled. “He turns Iselle against me.”

“There’s a page,” mused dy Jironal, “who said his back is covered with flogging scars.”

Dondo began to smile.

Dy Jironal arched a brow. “It wouldn’t be hard to make Orico frantic to get dy Cazaril _far_ away from his innocent sister.”

~ * ~

  


  
**4\. Pressure**

 _an attempt to push the opponent's blade aside  
or out of line from engaged blades_

 _“—by death magic—”_

 _“—sent a page to catch a rat—”_

Dy Jironal pounded through the Zangre, his rage a red mist clouding his vision, as Dondo’s men and his own babbled on behind him.

He threw a door open and strode to the bed, pulling the coverlet off the huddled corpse—

—who rolled over and blinked at him in exhausted confusion.

Dy Jironal drew a breath. No, dy Cazaril didn’t have the courage to sacrifice himself to the Bastard, no matter how much he had wanted Dondo dead.

But _someone_ had. And he would find—

— _her_.

~ * ~

  


  
**5\. Feint**

 _an attack into one line  
with the intention of switching to another line  
before the attack is completed_

“What do you mean, he’s _not in Valenda?_ ”

“Um—” His man shrank away, raising his hands to fend off dy Jironal’s quiet fury. “All I know is, he arrived with two men, stayed the night, and rode off again the next day.”

“Which way did they ride when they left?”

“Toward Palma,” the man said quickly.

 _Toward Ibra?_

Dy Cazaril must not be permitted to return.

He most _especially_ must not be permitted to return with the Fox’s whelp in tow.

Happily, dy Jironal had a number of ways to ensure that he would not.

~ * ~

  


  
**6\. Invitation**

 _a line that is intentionally left open  
to encourage the opponent to attack_

Dy Jironal strode, unopposed, into dy Baocia’s fine new palace.

It would all be all over in mere moments. The Ibran pup, slain—what a pity, people would say, that the boy had attacked the Lord Regent. That poor Iselle was as mad as her mother.

Then, he would hold the throne of Chalion openly at last.

He reached the courtyard where his spies had said Iselle and Bergon would be praying. But they were gone.

He swore.

He would have them, if he had to search every street—

 _“Martou!”_

The raw, rasping bellow stopped him short.

He turned.

~ * ~

  


  
**7\. Lunge**   


Dy Cazaril was swordless. Visibly ill. Pinioned by two of dy Jironal’s own men. And _still_ his eyes blazed.

His challenge rang through the courtyard—poisonous truths, laid bare.

This, at last, was the man dy Jironal remembered; the one who had held Gotorget, who would have been a true threat to Dondo.

Who was too dangerous to leave alive.

Dy Jironal exulted in the weight and balance of his sword as he swung it over his head and thrust down, out, aiming right for dy Cazaril’s gut.

He would _end_ this. Now.

This time, no one could stop him.

~ _fin_ ~


End file.
